master of your fate?

“The first 12 years of retirement should be the richest, fullest, most intentional years of your life. Not the most cautious. Not the most careful. The most alive.” That’s Dan Haylett’s advice in, “Your 12 good years.” If only that worked for everyone. 

Today, as I push my cart towards the automatic doors at the market, I notice a man about my age just ahead of me. He is distinguished, freshly shaven and wears a bright, yellow sweater. When the automatic doors open, however, he doesn’t budge.

“Waiting for the light to change, huh?” I tease, noting his hesitation.

“Nope. Waiting for my wife. Apparently, I’m not allowed to drive anymore.” The loss of independence sits heavy in his eyes.

“It was just a little fender bender,” he explains. “The guy ahead of me stopped too fast.”

His son took away his car keys. Now he must be driven everywhere like a schoolboy. He’s mad but mostly he’s sad. I would be, too. No more jumping in the car on a moment’s whim and letting the world swirl past your windows. From now on, he’ll just be a passenger. I imagine him raising that son; the one who took his first steps as he looked on with pride. Now that boy will watch him take his last ones.

Having seen my share of elderly drivers motor through 4-way stop signs or poke along at speeds below 30, I get it. Presently, there are one million licensed drivers over the age of 80! And while one could say the same for teens: drivers over 85 have four times the fatality rate of teenage motorists. Still, losing your independence on any level is soul-crushing.

At 17, I drove the California coastline alone in an old, Chevy Nova with a stick shift. I still remember the hairpin turns approaching Big Sur, and the scary cliffs where mammoth waves crashed on the rocks below. It was a thrilling and heady ride, and I was the master of my fate. Years later, when Don Henley sang, “The Boys of Summer,” I was in my VW convertible, “with the top pulled down and the radio on!” 

Life imitates life— until it can’t anymore. We are so much younger in our heads than we are in our bodies and that dichotomy can get us into trouble. Recently, some young boys cajoled me into climbing a tree. I’m 73. (The oldest was 12. That should’ve been a clue.) 

“Come on, Helen,” they implored. “You can do it.”

Of course I could. A few boughs up, I realized my error. Getting down would be trouble. Thankfully, a strong friend came to my rescue and retrieved me from the limbs before I broke a few of my own.

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” No wonder. That’s where all our wild and free memories first ignited in us; the ones we thought would last forever. Someday, I would like to be that one percent still cruising in their 90‘s with the top down. If not, I’ll just have to put on my Wayfarers and call an Uber.

P. S. Here is a simple test to see if you/your loved one needs to turn in the keys.